


Resilience

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Consent, Future Fic, M/M, Pining, Sex, Stubborn Peter Parker, Tony Came Back Wrong, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-15 11:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21252428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Here’s the thing about coming back from the dead: you may be back, but you’re not supposed to be, and apparently everyone can feel it.





	Resilience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [downjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/downjune/gifts).

> A treat for you. I loved your prompts and have been wanting to do something with Tony coming back wrong, and what better time than Halloween?

“There’s really nothing you can do?”

Strange levels Tony with a frustrated look, one Tony recognizes from years of wearing it himself. It’s a look that says _I’m a genius, not a miracle worker_, which Tony doesn’t think is very fair. Most days, Strange can’t shut up about how he can bend time and space and mystical realms and blah, blah, blah, best wizard ever, which all seems pretty miracle-y to Tony. 

“Tony, you were brought back from the dead by forces even I don’t understand. Irreversible side-effects are to be expected. Look on the bright side: at least you're alive. That’s something to be grateful for.” 

“Oh yeah, alive and loving every second of it,” Tony grumbles, getting to his feet. Strange’s face is starting to contort with the teeth-clenching, throat-working stress that seems to be the only expression Tony sees anymore. It means it’s time to go. “Who doesn’t want to be brought back from a heroic death to find their wife’s moved on and no one, not even their own daughter, can stand to be in the same room as them for more than fifteen minutes at a time? Really won the lotto, here.”

“Life changes,” Strange says, hands working their circles, opening a portal back to Tony’s half-empty excuse for a new home. “You’ll get used to it.” 

“Sure I will,” Tony says, stepping through the portal. They both know it’s a lie.

***

Here’s the thing about coming back from the dead: you may be back, but you’re not supposed to be, and apparently everyone can feel it.

“I’m sorry man,” Rhodey explained the first and only time he tried to share a beer with Tony after his resurrection. “You know I love you, but I am literally going to be sick if I don’t leave. Let’s stick to Skype until you figure it out.”

(To his credit, he does call for an hour every other evening. Tony can’t be too mad.)

Happy described it as a chill up the spine that gets worse and worse, until he’s freezing from the inside out. Pepper winced and tried not to gag, but Tony could practically see the thought bubble over her head that said she’s glad they aren’t together anymore. Bruce simply turned on his heels and strode away without a word. He called later to explain it was the first time in years he’d almost lost control, animal fear rippling under his skin. 

Morgan cried. Tony tries not to think about that.

The only person who seems to be able to deal with it is Peter. Peter, who wears the years Tony lost on every inch of his body, taller, confident, moving with a grace he lacked as a teenager. Peter, a senior in college, and apparently not working all that hard, given how much time he manages to spend in the SI lab Tony has claimed as his own.

Peter, who spends _hours _in that lab, working away at his desk. He keeps his distance; Tony doesn’t miss that. They never get within more than a few yards of each other. But still, it’s something. Everyone else runs out of any room Tony enters screaming. Peter’s different. Peter’s _there_, and despite the ways he’s changed, all the best parts of him are the same: that quick smile, the eagerness to learn, the infectious enthusiasm. He’s the brightest part of Tony’s day.

If there has to be only one person in the world who can stand to be around him, Tony could’ve done a whole lot worse.

***

Except it turns out he can’t. He _can’t _stand to be around Tony, not any more than anyone else. He’s just stubborn.

***

Tony had assumed it had to do with the spider-powers. Super immunity, something like that. But then, a few weeks into his disorienting new normal—and no, he’s not getting used to it at all, thank you Doctor Dumbass—Tony drops a screw.

Simple thing: metal hitting the floor, rolling away. He doesn’t think as he chases after it, not until he hears a gasp and whips up. His chase has brought him into Peter’s space, just a few feet apart. When their eyes meet, Peter’s are wide, bloodshot. For the first time, Tony is close enough to see how pale he is, make out the sweat gathering at his hairline. He looks ill.

Peter lets out a strangled noise, maybe an aborted attempt at a sentence, and then sprints toward the bathroom.

Tony doesn’t even need to ask F.R.I. to bring up the security feed to know what he’s going to see, though he does anyway, because he’s that kind of masochist. Yep, just like he thought: there’s Peter, curled over the toilet bowl, clearly heaving his guts out.

“Great.” Tony glances at the bots. Dum-E is chasing after the screw, reaching for it only to set it rolling away. “I hope you guys are ready to be my only friends again.”

***

Ten minutes later Peter slinks back into the lab, looking sheepish and for all the world like he’s sixteen again, afraid of being scolded.

He keeps a sizable distance between them. Of course he does.

“I thought it didn’t affect you,” Tony says immediately. No point in pretending they don’t both know what’s going on. “Not like that. I thought it had something to do with your powers.”

Peter looks at his feet, hands linking behind his back. “I mean…it does? I guess? Have to do with my powers. It’s not that I can’t feel it, but I’m _really _good at dealing with pain. So it’s really not a big deal, Mr. Stark. You just surprised me by getting close so quickly. It threw me off.”

Really good at dealing with pain? Jesus.

“Pete…” Tony’s not sure what to say. He didn’t ask for this. Peter doesn’t think he asked him to do this, does he? “You don’t have to. You know that, right? I don’t know what I’ve done to mislead you, but I never wanted you to hurt yourself—”

“I know, Mr. Stark,” Peter cuts in, interrupting the really good self-flagellation rant Tony was building to. Rude. “I thought you wouldn’t want me around if you knew, that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

Very tricky. Tony would be proud, if he wasn’t the one being tricked. “Why? Why would you do this to yourself? I’m no expert, but everyone else has made it clear being in my orbit is truly miserable, and not in the fun, I’m-a-pain-in-the-ass way it used to be.”

“Because being around you is worth it.” When he raises his eyes, Tony sees something new there, pointed and burning.

His heart chooses now as a very inconvenient time to start hammering. “You’re the only one who seems to think so.”

Apparently taking that as the invitation it was intended to be, Peter slides back into his lab chair with a smile.

Tony should tell him to go. That he’s not worth being in pain for. Not even close. But that smile lights up the room, and fuck it. He’s selfish.

***

But that look. That fucking look. It unlocks something, a box Tony hadn’t realized existed in his heart, but had apparently been there, labeled Do Not Even Think About It, No, Tony, Don’t You Dare.

Except now the box is open, and he is thinking about it. About the quickening of his pulse when he hears F.R.I. announce Mr. Parker is in the building. The electric thrill he gets every time Peter grins at one of his jokes. The tightening in his gut when Peter says something truly brilliant—so, you know, at least once an hour—a tightening he can’t possibly pretend is mentorly pride, not when it’s still there at night, when he’s finally alone, hand around his dick, imagining the things he would do if only he could get within touching distance.

And oh, the things he imagines. Coming up behind Peter, hand sneaking under his shirt, teeth claiming his neck. Thrusting him face down onto the desk, pounding into him. Or maybe putting those sticky fingers to good use. He could probably hold himself up on the wall while Tony kisses him until he begs for it. Or something else entirely: back at Tony’s new brownstone, in his bed, kissing for hours, kissing until they fall asleep, delighting in each other, in being able to touch, to worship, to celebrate being alive—

“You’re staring at me again.” Peter’s voice is amused, teasing. “Do you realize you’ve been doing that a lot the last few weeks?”

Tony blinks himself back to reality, and is suddenly very glad to be sitting. His mind got a little carried away there, and certain parts of his body were all too glad to go along with it. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Peter says, turning back to his work. Then, quieter—quiet enough that Tony can pretend not to hear, but they both know he does—“I like it.”

***

Enough is enough, Tony decides that night, coming just to the memory of the smile Peter got as he told him he likes it when he stares. They might not be able to touch, but that doesn’t mean they’re helpless.

***

“If I could get any closer to you, I’d pin you against that desk and kiss you until you couldn’t think straight,” Tony says the next day, when sneaking glances at Peter—who is wearing a particularly tight black t-shirt that is just not fair—gets to be too much. “Just as an FYI.”

Peter snaps his head up, gaping at Tony for a solid thirty seconds, which is truly a painfully long time to have someone gape at you after saying something like that. Then, with a determined expression Tony recognizes from battles, literal battles, he stands and crosses the distance between them. He comes up short less than a foot away, breathing heavily. The strain is there in his eyes, a tight set to his jaw, but he nods.

“Okay. Do it.”

“What?” Tony wants to, can feel the want down to his fingers, which flex, reaching for the skin they’ve longed to touch. But not if it will cause Peter more pain. There’s nothing he wants enough for that. “Kid, I can’t do that to you. Just standing here looks like it’s killing you.”

“Then _why _would you say that?” Peter sounds desperate. Does he want to kiss Tony _that_ much, or is the ache in his voice because it’s taking all his energy to stay in place?

“Honestly, I was aiming for a mutual masturbation type situation.”

Peter giggles. Really giggles, edging into hysterical laughter. “As awesome as that sounds, Mr. Stark, kissing you sounds a whole lot awesomer. Please?”

Tony should say no. But remember that thing about being selfish? Besides, even a much better man than he is would have a hard time turning down those eyes. Especially when they’re paired with Peter saying “Please?” again, voice trembling, eyebrows pulling in like a question: _do you really want me?_

Tentatively—so much more tentatively than in the fantasies, but then, in the fantasies Tony isn’t some twisted wrong blotch on the world that makes the people around him sick—Tony puts a hand on Peter’s chest, just above his heart, which beats as fast as Tony’s, racing like they’ve both been in a fight.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

Peter nods, throat working. Tears spring up in his eyes. He doesn’t look okay at all. Tony almost pulls away, horrified at his own selfishness, but Peter grabs his wrist, firm enough that he can’t break the grip.

“_Please_,” he says for the third time. “Please? Just kiss me before I can’t stand here anymore.”

So Tony does. Just a peck, but Peter leans in, turns the peck into lips pressing firmly together. When he doesn’t fall to the floor in pain right there, Tony takes it as a sign to keep going, lips parting, tongue teasing forward, welcomed by Peter with a moan.

Tony’s worried it’s a moan of pain, but then Peter’s hands are in his hair, pulling him closer, and it’s hard to argue with that. He gives into the unbearable pleasure of being _touched _again, for the first time—_fuck_, for the first time since he died. No one else has dared.

Before he can think about it, he wraps his hands around Peter’s hips, jerking him even closer, body to body, drinking in the warmth of him, the buzz of skin near skin, the hardness that rubs against his stomach and _fuck_, how is the kid surviving this? How is he making needy little noises, unmistakably of pleasure, that go straight to Tony’s cock?

Suddenly he’s pulling at Peter’s shirt, at his own, desperate for more. He’s sloppy at it, drunk on want, desire overriding coordination, but Peter catches on and together they manage to get there, shirts off, chest to chest. Tony buries his face in the crook of Peter’s neck and inhales. He smells perfect, like skin and sweat and cheap body wash, and fuck, how is Tony allowed to be this close? He wants to cry from relief, from the knowledge that it must be killing Peter, from how unfair that is.

He forces himself to raise his head. To ask the question he doesn’t want to ask: “Kid, are you okay?”

The smile that greets him isn’t strained at all. Not at all. Peter nods, eager, then brushes his cheek against Tony’s beard, nuzzles into his neck.

“I feel great,” he says, breathless. It’s not the breathlessness of fighting pain, but of pleasure, the kind that comes with his dick rutting against Tony’s thigh. “I don’t get it, but I feel so much better.”

Oh. _Oh_.

Tony’s not sure he gets it either, but the part of his brain that’s always on, working even in a moment like this, is already filing through every myth and ancient sex ritual he can remember from the one classics course he took in college. That’s a thing, right, sex and life and celebration, Dionysus and all that? He’s not really sure, but in a universe where half of everyone can disappear because a purple sociopath collects gems, where a wizard sees the future and Tony comes back from the dead a monster, why not? Why not, for once, magic working in his favor?

He’s lived long enough to learn not to look a gift horse in the mouth. At least, not yet. He’ll see Strange about it later. For now, he has Peter Parker in his arms, touching him, kissing him, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans.

Yeah, he’s not going to question that.

***

It turns out he was right about Peter’s powers being helpful for a wall sex situation. And he does: he kisses him until he begs, until he whimpers, until he comes from nothing but Tony’s mouth on his and the friction of dicks rubbing together.

Then, because he is nothing if not incredibly stubborn and impossibly resilient, Peter wraps his legs around Tony’s waist, looks up through his eyelashes, and says, “I still want you to fuck me, sir.”

At some point, Tony is going to mention that Peter can probably stop calling him “Mr. Stark,” and “sir,” but as he demands Dum-E bring them lube—what? The little dude has seen worse—he decides that now is not the time.

When Peter comes again a few minutes later with Tony buried inside him, shouting, “Fuck, _Mr. Stark_, don’t stop,” Tony adds a mental note to clarify that the name can stay in certain situations. Like this one. This is the situation.

Tony doesn’t stop, but he has to take it slow, riding the edge of his own orgasm. The thrill of touch, of _Peter_, is enough that he almost can’t move without coming, but he manages: long strokes, staring into Peter’s eyes, marveling at the closeness of him. The way his face is lax with pleasure, all tension and pain gone, just want, and want, and want.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Peter says, hands tangling into Tony’s hair. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?”

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Tony replies, kissing him briefly. He tries not to think about the fact that in Tony’s world, Peter was sixteen just a few weeks ago. “But I’m glad it’s happening now.”

“Me too,” Peter agrees, and then they’re kissing again, and Tony stops worrying about anything but this moment.

***

After—after Peter comes a third time, and Tony falls apart whispering his name like a prayer—they curl up together on the floor. It’s cold, and probably dirty, but Tony doesn’t care, because he has Peter in his arms, Peter tracing patterns on his back, Peter looking up at him, eyes heavy with exhaustion but sparkling and happy.

“So, what do you think?” he asks, grabbing Tony’s hand and bringing it to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “Do we have to touch all the time, or what?”

“The easy way to find out would be for you to go walk a few feet away and tell me how you feel,” Tony muses, lacing their fingers together. “After that, we can take it to Strange to see what he has to say. But I vote we hold off on that experiment for another few minutes.”

Peter grins. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Tony kisses him, long and deep. Peter responds eagerly, and Tony wonders if he’s already ready for another round. Probably, if history is anything to go by. “Or maybe longer than a few minutes.”

“Even better.”

“And,” Tony adds, moving to Peter’s neck, “just to be clear. Whatever happens, we _definitely _need to touch all the time.”

Peter laughs, rolling Tony on top of him. “Yeah,” he agrees. “That sounds like a really good plan.”

You know, maybe Tony can get used to his new life after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Re-dated because it was part of an exchange and authors are revealed. Sorry if you've seen it before.
> 
> As always, feedback is adored and so appreciated!


End file.
